Antololil’s rage knew no bounds as he stared into the blank, empty face of the elaborate mirror before him.

         The mirror looked back at him opaquely, silently; he felt almost with disdain.  He almost couldn’t see his own face in its dark, obsidian surface, nor the stunned, angry glares of his companions; for their skin matched the shade of the mirror.  If it wasn’t for the red light of fury in their dark elven eyes, or the gleaming white of most of their hair, he would not have been able to make them out at all.  He seethed at the sight.  Beside him, his mage lieutenant, the one who had dispelled the illusion upon the mirror that was supposed to convince the drow mercenary band that this was, indeed, the prize they sought, watched Antololil quietly, only the slight tremor in his hands betraying his terror.  “I’m sorry, master,” he said to Antololil meekly.  Antololil let his gaze slip back into the darksight that was more natural to his people, and saw with some small measure of satisfaction that the mage’s face was bloodless with the force of his fear.

         Lashing out suddenly, in a movement so rapid that the eye could not rightly follow, he swept his leg out to his side, causing the mage to shriek and cover his face.  But his target was not the foolish wizard; it was the useless, dark-surfaced mirror, which shattered into a thousand brittle pieces.

         When the dust had settled, Antololil turned to regard his followers carefully, dangerously.

         A large, bald dark elf who was easily twice the size of the others, Antololil included, was the only one who dared even shift position.  “What do we do now, master?” he inquired of the mercenary leader, folding his arms carefully over his bare, thickly muscled chest.  His posture told Antololil that now, more than ever, he was itching for a fight, and if his need was not indulged, he would indulge it on the other mercenaries.  Antololil did not care, other than he would need the strength of the whole band, working in consort, to get them away from this damnable cave and back to their Underdark home.  He stroked his chin thoughtfully, considering the dilemma.

         “Matron Torarn has betrayed us,” he hissed furiously through gritted teeth.  “The Breagan D’ath never forgives a slight.  We will take our vengeance.”

         “Master,” the mage piped up, mostly recovered from his ordeal, “if the Matron will not pay the Breagan D’ath the agreed-upon price, perhaps we should make sure that no one else can collect either.”  He grinned widely, an evil, conniving grin, and the other D’ath caught it quickly and returned it.

         But Antololil was not willing to let all of this go so easily.  Not when they had come all this way for nothing.  “We will change the conditions of the contract,” he decided.  “Instead of slaying the targets, we will acquire them into our possession.  That way, if the dear Matron Mother hires anyone else for this job, who is more easily fooled than we - “ he smirked with wicked amusement - “they shall have to go through us to get to them.”  He met the eyes of the assembled drow before him, one at a time.  “One way or another,” he swore, “ we will be compensated for our trouble.”

         Uthruil stood in the doorway of his cabin, his arms folded easily over his chest, watching his daughter play quietly by the river.  The sky was the rich purple hue of twilight and it was time for the elven child to come inside for the night, but he didn’t have the heart to interrupt her and so he stood at the door, just watching.  The forest seemed unusually silent that eve, but the elven warrior could smell imminent rain, so this was hardly surprising.  He loved the way the lush thicket filled the air with the essence of greenness when rain clouds built upon themselves, and perhaps that, more than anything, was why he lingered in the doorway instead of calling to his baby girl to come inside.

         Nor was he worried about the brooding rainstorm wetting her skin.  She was, after all, chasing frogs over the muddy riverbank with her friends.  A little rain would wash her off nicely before she came in for bed.

         “What are you doing?” a soft, feminine voice inquired from within at last, and the elf smiled faintly.  When he failed to answer, the source of the voice glided to his side and wrapped surprisingly strong brown arms around his waist.  Uthruil looked down at her questioning face and smiled again, then he kissed her on the tip of her nose affectionately.  Gods, how her daughter resembled her!  The likeness was amazing, unmistakable.  “Nothing,” he replied goodnaturedly to the elf maid who had stolen his heart.  “Just watching them play, that’s all.”

         Amalana smirked wryly.  “I thought I asked you to get her to come inside,” she chided him gently.

         Uthruil smirked too.  “What’s the hurry?” he queried in reply.

         Amalana pretended to look cross, but in truth, she could see no need to rush either.  The air was fresh and warm still, and it wasn’t quite dark yet.

         The drow mercenaries slipped through the forest, and though the dwellers of the surface world would have mistaken them for moon-shadows, to Antololil’s hypersensitive ears, they seemed hopelessly loud, crashing through these strange, green, sharp growing-things, and the sky was blindingly bright, with its great silver glowing orb.  They’d wondered at first if the needles on the plants were venomous, as surely any such Underdark vegetation would have been, but they were so thick that it was impossible to avoid brushing against them; and by now, Antololil was certain that if they were poisonous, the whole band would have been dead six times over.

         They almost missed the village until they were right on top of it, but it was the changing of the rhythm of the river that alerted them.  Antololil waved his hands rapidly in the silent language of the drow, indicating that the band should take cover, and they did.

         What now? queried the wizard with his flashing hands.

         The large drow warrior had a simple suggestion.  We attack, he said directly.  They are elves.  How much trouble can they be?  He looked to Antololil for confirmation.

         Antololil nodded his ascent.  How much trouble indeed?  When darkness falls, he responded, we strike.

         The band drew their weapons and eagerly awaited nightfall.

         Lleniares laughed merrily as she chased frogs over the riverbank.  Her skirt was soaked and she was covered in mud from head to foot, but she hardly noticed or cared.  Nor did she take more than a cursory glance as her friends, Jarenin and Anathlia, waved goodbye, saying that their parents were calling them home for dinner.  She was simply having too much fun.  At last she stopped running, having lost her breath, and she crouched in the reeds and waited.  After several minutes, during which most children would have given up or fidgeted restlessly, a frog hopped within her reaching distance and looked at her, croaking.  She sprang from the reeds like a cat and seized it firmly in her little brown hands.  “Gotcha!” she proclaimed triumphantly, and she whirled about to show Uncle, whom she knew was standing at the door watching her.

         The night was shattered by a piercing, anguished shriek.  Not long after came a cry, a word that every elf from the cradle dreads he will ever hear - “Drow!”

        Uthruil was startled by the sudden scream, but not entirely taken by surprise.  His heart dropped into his gullet and his whole body seemed suddenly numbed.  Here we go, was all he thought as he bellowed, “Lleniares!  Come inside right now!”

         Lleniares stared back at him with wide, horrified eyes and did not move.

         “NOW!” he roared, all gentleness abandoned, and as she began to run to him, Amalana pressed his longsword into his hand.  They exchanged a look then, the gaze of seasoned warriors, knowing that it might be the last, and they pushed Lleniares into the house and slammed the door behind them.

         “Mommy!” the child shrieked, and she tried to open the door.

         “Stay inside!” cried Amalana, “and don’t come out!”  And she and Uthruil charged off towards the explosions and flashes that told them that magical, as well as physical combat, had been joined.

         Some might have said that they ought to have remained, and defended the child as best they could, but unlike most elves, Uthruil and Amalana had many times crossed swords with the drow.  They knew that only by striking quickly, and with overwhelming force, would any of them have a chance at all.  “I hope Gahresemar is there already!” Uthruil confided to Amalana as she began to intone prayers of blessing.

         But Lleniares’ heart demanded that she act, and after several agonizing moments of pondering whether she ought to stay or go, she flung wide the door and bolted after her parents, crying for her mother.

         The first death had gone quickly and smoothly, just as planned.  The elf drowned in a pool of his own blood, and Antololil grabbed the child by one arm.  But the child shrieked until he slammed a hand over her mouth and hefted her over one shoulder.  Someone that no one in the band noticed - no one noticed! - cried the word, “Drow!” before the wizard Bel’ryss silenced him with a well-placed fireball.

         Then the world exploded.

         Within a spider’s strike, the green growing things seemed to come alive and arrows ripped out from all sides.  Four D’ath were slaughtered before anyone else even had the chance to react.  “Take cover!” snarled Antololil in frustrated fury, and he pulled the child to the ground with him as he called forth an inky ball of darkness to cover their tracks.

         Bel’ryss slammed up an invisible wall of force, and that held them off until an elven mage appeared, who dispelled the well-woven enchantment with a wave of his pale white hand.  Then their warriors emerged, three of them, and by the eerie wordless song issuing from their lips, Antololil knew that they could only be that most feared of elven fighters, those as skilled with spell as with sword - bladesingers.  “Take her!” Antololil commanded one of his followers, shoving her in that direction, and he waded forth into the frey, sensing only imminent disaster.

         Uthruil and Amalana arrived on the scene soon after.  It was nearly impossible to decipher the meaning behind the chaos.  Globes of impenetrable darkness obscured most of the battle, which seemed now to be mostly one on one, as weapon struck weapon in a mad frenzy.  Uthruil let the song of the battle sing in the marrow of his bones, calling to him, moving his body in the rhythm of the death-dance.  Corellon, give me strength, he prayed silently, as the wordless tune of the battle sang through his body and out from his mouth and throat, and his longsword moved in time, drawing a deceptive pattern of grace and beauty.  A green glow collected in his empty hand, and when it had built to its full potential, he sent it flying into the heart of one of the invading drow, who promptly fell to his knees.

         Amalana clasped the silver triad moons of Angharradh in her hand and cantillated the ancient words of power.  A column of flame as tall as a tree descended upon one of the drow and incinerated him instantly.

         The eyes of the drow grew wide at the sight of this, and then a mage with a shock of white hair began to cry, “Yathrin!” over and over, until at last his panic abated to a manageable level and he began to sling the full force of his spells at Amalana.  The elf maid reeled under the onslaught of magical energy, and it was all she could do to keep her wits about her.

         Uthruil’s own eyes widened in horror.  “Yathrin” was the drow word for “priestess,” and he knew that a male drow feared nothing more.

         The dark elves descended upon her.

         Lleniares ran as fast as her little feet could carry her to the sounds of the battle, her eating knife clasped firmly in her hand.  She wasn’t sure what she could do when she arrived, but she was going to try!  All she knew was that she had a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach, and her Mommy was at the center of it.

         She leaped into the clearing to see chaos and bloodshed that no child was meant to see.  Elves dark and light were screaming and dying all around her, and the air was crackling with magical energies.  She searched frantically with her eyes, and saw her Mommy at last, surrounded by dark elves on all sides and fighting desperately for her life, slashing at a wall of arms and blades with her longsword.  “Mommy!” Lleniares howled wretchedly, and she charged to her mother’s defense.

         Uthruil, fending off three opponents, saw the embodiment of his nightmares out of the corner of his eye, and was helpless to prevent it.  “Corellon, help me!” he moaned, and his body flew into a new frenzy of motion, tearing into his enemies with a strength and fury born of desperation and terror.

         Lleniares ran to her mother, crying out for her.  Amalana heard the cry.  She turned to glance at her daughter, who was running for her with all she had, but that momentary distraction was all that her formidable opponent needed.  He slashed her throat open in one brisk, deadly motion, casting her aside, and Lleniares was showered with her mother’s last lifeblood.  Amalana fell at her daughter’s feet, wordlessly forming her name on her lips.  If her throat hadn’t been cut open, Amalana’s last act in this world would have been to tell her daughter to run for her life.

         Antololil watched Amalana fall.

         He’d heard the small voice crying, “Amme, Amme,” over and over, and knew it likely to be the other target they had come to acquire.  And now he stood in front of the child, and the child’s eyes, climbing slowly from her mother’s body up to his face, were so wounded, so heartbroken and stunned, that for a moment, the space of a heartbeat, he hesitated.  The child looked up at him, drenched in her mother’s blood, and there was a knife clutched in one hand, but instead of hatred or vengeance being etched in those eternal eyes, he saw only anguish so profound that for a moment, Antololil felt as though he were being judged by a power he could not name.

         The moment was broken by a sudden catlike movement, and a cry of pure rage, and then an elven warrior, singing the bladesong, landed in front of the child and pushed her firmly behind him.  Then all contemplation was lost, for Antololil found himself in a desperate battle for his life.  He parried as best he could, but even with his considerable skill, he knew himself to be no match for the foe he fought.

         Suddenly, Antololil lost all desire to continue this course.  Suddenly, he decided that the best thing he and his followers could do would be to cut their losses and flee for their lives.

         He settled a globe of darkness over the elven warrior’s head, and blew the magical whistle that he carried around his neck, signaling retreat.  With that, all those who still could brought forth their own globes of darkness, and stepped through the dimension door that Bel’ryss conjured.

         They were once again in the cave with the remains of the useless mirror.

         Bel’ryss was furious.  “We escaped with nothing!” he wailed, tearing at his shock of white hair.  “Nothing!”

         “Not nothing,” the bald, large warrior named Bar’yraen Hatch corrected; and he held up the terrified, fair-haired elven child trembling in his grasp with a satisfied smirk.

         In the elven village, nothing remained but the carnage and the tears.  Uthruil dropped his sword and clasped Lleniares by the shoulders.  “Are you okay, Lleni?” he demanded, searching over her body for cuts, marks, bruises.

         Lleniares looked back at him with shattered, opaque, dark eyes, and said absolutely nothing.

         Days passed.

         Uthruil knew that he would never forget the overwhelming acrid smoke of the funeral pyres, nor the weeping of the survivors.  Amalana’s mortal shell was devoured by the flames, and her spirit ascended to Arvandor as the smoke ascended in a plume to the sky.  He wept only when the elven mourning-song poured from his soul, as he clasped Gahresemar’s hand in his left and Lleniares’ hand on his right.  She did not sing the mourning-song.  She did not weep.  She stared into the flames with haunted, vacuous eyes and remained as silent as she had since the attack.  As Uthruil led her from the funeral to the customary feast that would commemorate the lives of the dead, he could not help but wonder whether her mind was shattered, or whether she was, perhaps, willing herself to die.    Please Corellon, he prayed, please don’t tell me that I have failed.

         It was only then that he realized that she had not even washed the dried blood from her body, nor even changed her clothes.

         “Come on, Lleni,” he said to her softly, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

         He took her to the riverbank, and led her to the edge of the water.  She followed meekly, silently, her hand in his.  But when he attempted to remove her bloodstained dress, she broke her silence and howled like an animal while trying to bite his hand!  He flinched away instinctively, and she stood there and looked at him with eyes once more vacant, her arms locked about her chest, sealed over her blood-covered clothing protectively.

         Uthruil glanced at his friend Gahresemar helplessly, his eyes full of misery.  “What do I do?” he cried.  “How do I help her?”

         Gahresemar touched a pale hand to his pale face.  “I don’t know,” he confessed.  “Perhaps Madrimlien can help her."

         Lleniares did not respond to either one of them.

         What was left of the Council of Elders gathered in the main hall of the village to discuss the children and their fate.

         Anathlia was missing, the Council knew, but not where she had gone.  All attempts to scry for her had failed.  Not even the highest powers of the archmages and the hierophants of the priesthoods could discern her location; not even the clerics of Sehanine.  Uthruil could only fear the worst, but he intended to set out in search of her, as soon as Lleniares no longer needed him, with or without the Council’s consent.

         Jarenin had not stopped crying in a week.  His parents were slaughtered before his eyes in the raid, and he had no relatives, and no one else knew how to help him.

         Lleniares had not uttered a sound aside from the animal cry since that horrible day, nor had she eaten a bite, and only forcing water down her throat had kept her alive thus far.

         Gahresemar knew of only one way to save them.

         “No,” the bear shaman called Karari said flatly in response.

         Gahresemar scowled darkly, his purple eyes flashing with fury.  “Have you a better idea, Karari?” he demanded.  “Because if you do, I’m listening.”

         Karari did not reply.

         The faerie wizard cast them all an exhausted stare.  “I just don’t know what else to do,” he confessed in resignation.

         “The question remains,” offered a wood elven Council member, “can it even be done?”

         “Oh yes,” the tall, lithe elf known as Madrimlien nodded in affirmation.  “Between Gahresemar and myself, easily.”

         The room fell quiet, deep in the pondering of the ethics of their decision.

         “In order for it work,” Karari growled, “they’ll have to be taken away from as many reminders as possible.”

         Uthruil raised his lowered head.  “I’ve already thought of that,” he confessed.  “The truth is, this place is no longer safe anyway.  If the drow know about it now, they’ll be back.  You know it and I know it.”

         No one denied the validity of his claim.

         When no one else said anything, Karari at last consented.  “Then let it be done,” he said in resignation, “but know that we are responsible for whatever happens as a result!”

         And when Jarenin and Lleniares were taken to their new home, Madrimlien, who studied mysterious mind magics, and Gahresemar, who studied the arcane, combined their powers so that the two children would forget all that had yet transpired in their lives.

          But somewhere in the hidden recesses of unconsciousness, even elves and children remember everything, and none of the three child-elves whose lives had been so touched would ever be the same.